


Substitution therapy - Canon Version

by LizCarroll2612



Series: Substitution therapy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Comfort/Angst, Drug Addiction, Gen, Post-Canon, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4356236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizCarroll2612/pseuds/LizCarroll2612
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't have a drug habit!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Substitution therapy - Canon Version

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to [Boton](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton) for "nerding out on sentence construction" with me while betaing this story!  
> All mistakes are still mine, though, of course!
> 
> \------------------------------
> 
> There are two (will be three in the end) versions of this story. Just the ending is  
> different. You can scroll down to the  
> \--  
> if you want to read all versions but don't want to read the parts again, that you already know.
> 
> I have got no personal experience with drugs of this kind. So this is all based on information I collected - mainly on the internet. I couldn't decide which drug I "wanted" Sherlock to take: in the ACD books it's cocaine and morphine but morphine is pretty unusual today and from cocaine he wouldn't get as lethargic as I needed him to become in this story. So I kept that open and just let him take "drugs".

Sherlock lay back on the sofa and exhaled deeply while he enjoyed the drug kicking in. These first seconds when it reached his brain, when his bloodstream carried it from the vein of his arm through his whole system, weren't comparable to anything else.

He knew there were people who compared this to an orgasm. From the admittedly few times he had had sex, he could tell that that comparison was bleak. This was so much better, so much more intense. People always thought that you must have ruined your life, if your most enjoyable moments were the drug highs taking hold. But people were stupid. Nothing could feel better than this. They just had never tried it and didn't know what it felt like. They were missing out on something; it wasn't him but them who were wasting their lives.

Maybe if he were an addict and the drug had total control over his life he would agree. But he had control over his drug use. He was intelligent enough to handle it; he would be able to go without it if he wanted to, but he didn't.

A few weeks ago Mycroft had visited. He said that he had ignored Sherlock's drug use for the past years now because it really seemed that he had it under control, but that recently he felt that had changed.  
Sherlock had told him to fuck off.

Before he left, Mycroft gave him the advice to ask himself whether the drugs really still were a replacement for solving crimes when he didn't have any cases or if the cases had started to become a replacement for the drug to keep himself from using constantly...?

Sherlock had ignored that advice and gone to find his dealer.

Until recently, when he had worked his cases for Lestrade and other clients, he hadn't used at all. The adrenaline was enough. It was only when he didn't have any cases that the boredom set in, and, after some time, he went out to buy his stuff.

It was a hobby. It was a deliberate decision on how to spend his down time. Like others decided that they would go hiking or sailing, he decided that he would spend his free days getting high. And like others looked forward to their hobbies he looked forward to taking drugs when he knew there would be a few days without a case ahead of him.

He looked forward to buying it; he looked forward to driving home with the little package in his pocket; he looked forward to preparing everything. He looked at the table where he had spread out the little package with the powder, the syringe, the tourniquet, the antiseptic, the tissues... and felt the thrill of anticipation rush through his body. The smell of the antiseptic when he rubbed it on the crook of his arm was a promise of what would come.

The knowledge that this was a Pavlovian reaction distinguished him from a brainless junkie. He knew what happened in his brain and in his body. He knew what he was doing.

He had always hated injections. He still had to force himself not to run, if a doctor wanted to inject anything. It was ironic, that he had to do it to himself to get what he wanted. He had tried other modes of intake, but he had realised that he didn't like snorting and smoking at all. It just wasn't the same.

So he had to get through the part of blocking the blood flow in his arm, watching his vein getting thick and sticking out, sticking the needle through his skin and into his vein and finally ending the almost unbearable anticipation when he emptied the syringe into his vein and felt the drug being taken through his bloodstream.

He mostly succeeded in getting the needle out and pressing a tissue onto the puncture mark to stop the bleeding before the drug reached his brain and all thoughts about taking care of the injection mark - and anything else for that matter - disappeared.

He liked solving crimes; he wouldn't want to miss it. But he liked the relaxation of the breaks in between, the days when he got high, as well. Like the people who went sailing on weekends wouldn't want to give up their job because they liked that as well. He was content with his life between his hobby - the drugs - and his job - the crimes.

But recently, he had started wondering if there shouldn’t be something more in his life.

His drug use was truly recreational. He had nothing in common with the desperate figures sitting in front of railway stations.

He was intelligent enough to prevent all the negative side effects.

He did buy the good stuff that wasn't contaminated with some shit. As long as he didn't need more than he used now he could afford that.

He knew how to take care of his veins and how to not catch the diseases others were stupid enough to come down with.

He used antiseptic before he injected himself and sterile and sharp needles. He never shared needles with anyone because he always took the drugs at home and didn't hang around with some junkies.

He used different sites at his veins for each shot. The crook of the arm was easiest, of course, but he had some scarring there already. That happened if you injected into the same spot again and again before it had healed properly.  
There were junkies who were stupid enough to lose limps from tissue necrosis because of restricted blood circulation when their veins became completely blocked by scar tissue. Sherlock knew to prevent that, but there were only very few veins on his arm left that he could still use for injections if he wanted to avoid the already-scarred sites. 

When he had long breaks in between cases he sometimes went through more doses than he could inject into his arm without reusing a spot that hadn’t healed yet. Then he had to use a vein on his foot or his hand if he didn't want more scar tissue to form. That hurt more, but luckily he was smart enough to do it the safe way anyway.  
He was also too intelligent to really get addicted. He always took care to have long breaks where he didn't use at all so that he didn't fall into regular use. He would certainly realise it in time, if he were to ever get close to dependency.

He had been close. Once. At the end of his time at the university. He had had trouble dealing with the fact that Victor had disappeared from his life, and he had started using almost constantly. Mycroft, of course, realised it. He urged him to stop, urged him to get help if he couldn't stop on his own. Him, Sherlock Holmes, in rehab! What a ridiculous thought! If he wanted to stop, he would do it on his own. He wouldn't need help for that. IF he wanted to stop. But he didn't. 

Finally Mycroft had blabbed to their parents. His mother cried; his father just looked at him, desperate and helpless. He assured them that he didn't have a problem, that he had it under control. He knew they didn't believe it. It was at that time the scars on his arm had formed.

Somehow, right at that time, he realised that his interest in solving crimes could become more than an interest. He somehow got into contact with DI Lestrade and his interest became a job - a job for which he needed a clear mind to think properly.

It hadn't even been an effort. He hardly had time to feel any signs of withdrawal he had to overcome. After a case was finished he realised that it had been three, five, eight... days already since he last had time to even think of any drugs. And so the breaks between his highs became longer and longer as the number of his clients and the cases Lestrade asked him for help with grew more and more.

He sometimes wondered what would have happened, if he hadn't found his vocation right then, if he hadn't met Lestrade. But he didn't spend much time with that thought. He would never have become a real addict. He would have realised when his use had gotten really problematic, and he would certainly have found a way to stop, even if he hadn’t found his new passion right on time.  
As it was, the drugs had become a hobby for his spare time to keep his mind occupied in between cases - recreational drug use in the real sense of the word. That had worked well for years.

The changes Mycroft had been referring to had come about at the same time he had started wondering if there should be something else but drugs and crimes in his life. That thought really confused him, because it felt like he was missing something but didn't even know what it was.

Before, he had never thought about if and how he would handle the transitions from the days spend on drugs to working on the next case.

Now he always felt relieved when the urge for the drug disappeared a day or two after he had started to work on a case again. But that still confirmed that all the warnings by Mycroft and the others were wrong, didn't it? The first day might have become a challenge but he still could go without drugs if he wanted to.

Before, he had not started to think about buying something until he had gotten bored after a few days without a case. Recently he could still go without the drug as long as he needed for the case to be solved, but he looked forward to solving it because he would reward himself with a fix afterward. 

This time he had spend the whole time solving the case anticipating this moment. The moment when he would lay on his couch again feeling the relief of the drug after days of withdrawal. No, not withdrawal, because he wasn't an addict. So he didn't have withdrawals. He felt a little restless maybe, he sweated easier even though he seemed to be freezing all the time, he had difficulties concentrating, but that wasn't real withdrawal. He used recreationally, so he couldn’t be in withdrawal.

He could stop any time. He just didn't want to. Why would he want to stop something that felt so good...? Seriously, shouldn't there be something - apart from solving crimes - that should be at least as important as the drugs? He felt like he should be able to think of something.

When the effect of the drug wore off, he didn't feel well. Before, he had seldom had his next fix directly after the last. When he started to get sober again he had done other things: did some chores, played his violin, met Molly to do some experiments... When that wasn't interesting anymore he started to think about getting another fix. Now he knew that he just wanted the next one as soon as possible.

In the cab he briefly thought that maybe he should really try to limit his intake a little.

He had realised about three months ago that the dosage he had taken for years still was sufficient to relieve his urge, but that he didn't feel the usual kick any more. It was, of course, a sign that he had gotten unsettlingly used to the drug.

He had ignored it for some time and kept to his usual dosage, but then he finally wanted a decent high again like he used to get them before. And if he now needed a higher dosage for that, so be it...  
So he had bought more... And more...

Maybe it would be smart to just buy as much to get rid of this discomfort this time?

He shook his head to himself. No, he didn't just want to get rid of the slight nausea he felt and the trembling fingers; he just wanted a real nice high now. Maybe it was a good idea for next time to try to lower his dosage again, but not now.

When he met his dealer, he bought more at once then he had ever bought before. It would be nice to have something in stock. This didn't mean that he would take more in general. It just meant that he wouldn't have to meet his dealer so soon again. Just because he had it at home didn't mean that he had to use it all up at once.

He briefly considered taking the drug right when he got his hands on it. But he hadn't any equipment with him and, although it would certainly not be difficult to get a syringe around here, he didn't want that. He wasn't a stupid junkie who caught some stupid disease by sharing somebody else's needle just because he was desperate to get the drug into himself as soon as possible.

When he came home his hands were shaking, but he succeeded in injecting himself. He moaned when the drug reached his brain. Mycroft was stupid. There couldn't be anything that would be worth it to make him give this up!? Again, he felt like there should be something. It felt like he had had an idea that had been there for just a second before he lost it again. Something that was still lingering in the back of his mind but that he couldn't remember.

All these thoughts were replaced with the incredible feeling that took over his whole body when the high set in in full force.

Three and a half days later the stock he had bought was gone. He had just filled the syringe with the last fix. The veins in his arm that weren't covered in scar tissue were covered in injection marks. That used to happen very occasionally before - only when he had had very long breaks in between cases. During the last few weeks, he reached the point when he had to use other veins almost every time when he was on a break between cases.

He put the tourniquet around his leg slightly above the ankle. He took off his socks and pressed on some veins on his foot. Yes, that could work. He winced a little when he pushed the needle through his skin. He drew some blood into the syringe to see that he had really hit a vein and pushed the drug into his system. Oh, how good this felt...

\--

Sherlock woke up panting. What the hell...!?

He sat up and pulled up his sleeves. In the early morning light coming through the curtains he saw the old scars, no recent marks... Of course not!

\--

John's phone started to vibrate on the nightstand. Drowsily he answered it. "Sherlock? What is it?"

"I..." Sherlock started. "I forgot you..."

"What?" John asked.

"I forgot that I had you... I forgot that you were there...!" Sherlock was still utterly confused.

"I can assure you, I’m here," John whispered to not wake Mary and Rosie who had sneaked from her room into her parents' bed again. "I'm here on my phone that just rang in the middle of the night. Could you please shut up and go to sleep again?"

"Do you know that Rose discovered the scars on my arm yesterday and asked how I got them?" Sherlock asked.

John was quiet for some time. "No, I didn't", he answered. "Are you alright?" he asked, realising now that Sherlock seemed pretty shaken. "What did you tell Rose?"

"I told her that they are from a time where I did some very stupid things because I was really lonely," Sherlock answered.

John smiled, imagining Sherlock having that conversation with his daughter. "Have you ever ... except for the Magnussen case… done it since we knew each other?" he asked.

"Occasionally, after we met," Sherlock answered. "Never again since Rose was born..."

They both smiled. "You think you can sleep again?" John asked.

"Yes,” Sherlock answered.

"You’ll remember to pick up Rose from daycare tomorrow?" John asked. "Mary and I both have the afternoon shift."

"Do I ever forget?" Sherlock asked.

"No,” John answered. "No, you don’t."


End file.
